


late

by ChuckyJohn



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: M/M, it's kraps not pika, more softcore leopika, not sure what kind tho, some kind of AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 08:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13407759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckyJohn/pseuds/ChuckyJohn
Summary: They have a habit of meeting at the same run-down diner like clockwork every week.  Same time, same booth, often the same waitress with the same up-do, same old men that sit at the tables around them with their newspapers and worn out leather shoes. ... Whenever Kurapika walks through the door and sees Leorio bent over their usual table mulling over paperwork he can’t help but think to himself about how well he fits in there, and he treasures it.





	late

**Author's Note:**

> ##** Disclaimer: I haven't finished reading HxH and wrote this a few months ago when I hadn't even STARTED to read it. I watched half the 2011 anime in 2015 and have learned everything else through osmosis. All I'm saying is that my characterization might not be up to snuff, but I'm posting this as is anyway!**##

They have a habit of meeting at the same run-down diner like clockwork every week.  Same time, same booth, often the same waitress with the same up-do, same old men that sit at the tables around them with their newspapers and worn out leather shoes.  The checkered linoleum and countertops shine from a recent wipe-down but scuffs and stains that dot the floor and upholstery (and always have, as far as Kurapika knows) and the smokey smell remain.    The only thing that seems to change about the place is the weather outside it.  Whenever Kurapika walks through the door and sees Leorio bent over their usual table mulling over paperwork he can’t help but think to himself about how well he fits in there, despite only being in his twenties.  Gangly limbs, weathered hands, out-of-fashion glasses, brows kneading with stress.

When Kurapika places a hand on the table Leorio’s gaze jolts up to his face and the tension melts away and is replaced by an unreasonably huge grin.  “Kraps!” he exclaims, a little too loud for 6:30 in the morning.  The solitary man in the booth past theirs grunts and shuffles around his newspaper.

“Good morning, Leorio.” He takes his seat across from Leorio and seeks out eye contact with the waitress to be sure that she’s readying his “usual”.  They exchange nods, and his gaze returns to his dear friend, who’s still beaming.  “You seem to be in particularly good spirits today.”

“How could I not be?  It’s a fall morning and it’s not  _ raining _ .  That’s about one-in-a-million, you know?”  He straightens his paperwork and sets it aside, resting his chin on his hands.  “The colors are beautiful.  It’s a wonderful time of year.”

“Perhaps.”

The waitress slaps a paper napkin on the table and sets a steaming mug on it.  “One hot cup o’water, the usual.  Food’ll be out in a jiff.”

“Thank you,” Kurapika and Leorio chip simultaneously.

Kurapika retrieves a tea bag from his satchel, places it into the cup, and the true routine begins.  Kurapika stirs his tea, presses the bag with the spoon, pokes at his waffle idly; Leorio recounts to him in full detail and dramatics the week’s happenings in between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs or pancakes.  Leorio, as a hopeful pre-med student that holds down about half a dozen different odd jobs to pay for his schooling, tends to have enough misadventures each week to fill a novel.  He also loves to drone at a hundred-mile- an-hour pace in all shapes of loops and angles until he arrives at the beginning of the next story.  Kurapika, though he doesn’t pay too much mind to the hyperbolic tales, is fond of their time together.  It, paired with his tea, wakes- and warms- him.  The most bitter of mornings are smoothed out into something soft and pleasant.  The thought of another day is a pill a little easier to swallow.

“...and that guy,  _ ooogh _ he grinds on my last nerve.  Does he  _ have _ to move his big-ass decorative rocks literally every week?  Makes me want-ta take a hammer to ‘em.  I’m working for him today, cutting back the same goddamned flowers that make me sneeze and shoving around the same boulders I always am.  But it’s good money.  But- hey, how’s your week looking?  Shaping up swell?”  Leorio shovels a massive hunk of pancake into his mouth and points at him with his fork.

Kurapika’s spoon clinks on the ceramic of the mug.  “I’m leaving this week.”

“Leaving?” the coffee that was en-route to Leorio’s mouth halts mid-air.  “You mean, the, the ‘shipping out’ leaving?”

“Yes.”

He swallows.  “...I didn’t think it was so soon.” He forces a soft laugh, but his face falls.  After a moment, he pulls himself back up again, lifting his coffee high quick enough to spill some onto the table.  “That’s exciting!  It’s the new start you’ve been waiting for.  That work’ll do you well.  When are you heading out?”

“My train leaves at 4, tomorrow afternoon.”

Leorio chokes, caught off guard. “The afternoon?” he sputters, slamming his mug down on the table hard enough to send his spoon careening off the edge and onto the diner tile.  “You sure you don’t mean morning?  Don’t trains usually leave early?  4 am might be a  _ stretch _ but- but  _ morning _ , right?”

“Trains leave at all hours of the day, Leorio,” Kurapika chides.  “I know what time  _ mine _ departs.  I’ll be at the station by 3:30.  I  _ cannot _ miss it.”  He sips at his tea, eyes drifting out the window and across the parking lot absentmindedly.

“I’m working all afternoon tomorrow.  Like, not the labor kind, I can get out of that, but the- the special care home kind.” 

A beat.

“...Ah.”

The air between the two grows heavy.  The diner seems to still and silence uncomfortably.  Kurapika stares down at the plate in front of him, trying to find the words, any words, that could smooth  _ this _ out.  That’s Leorio’s forte, not his.  He opens his mouth- and just like that, the diner door chime rings, and a chorus of greetings and gruff laughter from the old men across the diner ring out.  The curtain is lifted and the world seems righted, but when Kurapika looks up at Leorio, he can see the weight in his shoulder set and in his cracked smile.

Kurapika’s eyes pass over the analog clock on the wall just behind Leorio.  “It’s time for me to go.”

The two stand at once and share a gaze rather than the usual glance.

“I’m very happy for you, Kurapika.”

“I know.”  

… … ...

The air is as cold as a knife against his cheek as Kurapika walks to his terminal.  He pulls his scarf away from his mouth and his breath creates a puff of steam in the air.  His wristwatch reads 3:43.  He has made it to his boarding station with plenty of time.  He takes a seat on one of the benches along the track and stilled train and tucks his baggage tight against his shins.

_ Now for the wait _ .

He could only assume that Leorio had meant to make an appearance, based on how strongly he’d reacted to the conflict of timing.  It would be nice, he thought, to say goodbye proper, rather than a day in advance and without warning.  It had shaken him to his core, the look on Leorio’s face.  It was one of sheer distress and desperation and a type longing that made him feel bruised just reminiscing on it.

As the minutes tick by, more people join him seated at the terminal.  He can’t help the bud of anxiety that starts to grow in him.  As the benches fill and the long-arm on his watch makes its rounds, it festers.  When he looks up from his watch, he notices a tall figure behind him in the train window.  He whips around to face the man and croaks out a surprised “Leo-” before taking in that this was not, in fact, Leorio.  The man is red-haired with an iced smirk.  He takes a step backward.  

“Excuse me.  Sorry to have disturbed you,” he says, sultry and slick, before walking down the line and finding a seat at the end of a distant bench.  Kurapika watches him go and feels something inside him sink.

_ He’s working. _  Kurapika nods.   _ He’s so hard-working. _

The doors of the train slide open.  A man steps onto the cement and announces: “All aboard.”

The dozens seated on either side of him all stir and rise, gathering their belongings and boarding.  Kurapika finds himself still and heavy.  He grips the handle of his luggage tightly.

He’s stuck like this until the man speaks again.  “Last call.”  

It’s 3:59.  

Kurapika, shakily, stands.  He offers up his ticket and boards the train.  The man follows him in and the door seals tight behind him.  Kurapika idles there, looking out across the platform.  The golds and auburns of autumn are still crisp.  The sky is blue and overwhelmingly massive.  Everything seems oh so foggy for a crystal clear evening.  The train lurches forward and Kurapika grabs at the bar on the wall- and something catches his eye.  There’s a man, slender and suited in navy,  _ absolutely hauling ass _ down the platform.  Something- a,  _ God _ , a bundle of yellow flowers waves wildly in his fist as he runs.  The train lurches again and begins to crawl without an ounce of notice or care for the man.

_ Oh Leorio- _

He’s made it to the end of the train, now, and Kurapika can see his eyes skimming the windows as he passes.  He’s still running, though haltingly, until his gaze meets Kurapika’s.  His eyes go wide as saucers and Kurapika can see him mouth his name.

_ Leorio. _

The train is picking up pace.  Leorio scrambles after, but there’s really no use.   _ There’s no use. _  He waves and he shouts, Kurapika wishes he knew what.  Kurapika finds himself calling back, to no avail.  Leorio’s stride falters and he falls down, hard, to his knees on the stone platform.  Kurapika can see Leorio grimace, can see the agony on his face. 

Leorio looks at the bouquet clutched in his hand and throws the flowers into the wind in a sudden explosion of yellow, scattering blooms and petals across the tracks.

As the platform grows distant, Kurapika finds that, at some point, he’d pressed his hand to the window of the train.  It’s haloed by a ring of fog.  Beyond it, the town streaks by, pocked by vermillion leaves blown into the air by the passing of the train.  

_ It  _ is _ beautiful,  _ Kurapika thinks.   _ But mostly, it’s cold. _

**Author's Note:**

> Go listen to "500 Miles" by Peter, Paul & Mary RIGHT NOW. You won't regret it.
> 
> ;)


End file.
